


and I ate

by PKA



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biblical References, Explicit Sexual Content, Hannibal Eats Stuff, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PKA/pseuds/PKA
Summary: Will wakes up one morning to find the world a different place.





	1. Chapter 1

Will wakes up on his side, facing away from Hannibal. Stifling a yawn, he stretches a little, careful not to press against the warm figure next to him. If Hannibal is still asleep, Will doesn’t want to wake him up. He’s still recovering, needing all the sleep he can get.

Hannibal is lying on his back; it's the only way he finds sleep at all, the only way his gunshot wound will let him. At least it's not infected anymore. The pain has subsided, but he still has to be careful with each of his moves, lest he tear it open again. He never says anything, of course, but Will has become acquainted with the mask his face becomes once he’s in pain.

»Good morning, Will,« Hannibal says, alerting Will to his wakefulness. His warm breath tickles on Will’s neck.

»Morning,« Will replies and they fall silent again.

They are both naked, Will realizes with a start. They have slept like this for weeks, healing cuddled together in the small cottage’s only bed, but today is different. Today is the first day Will’s head feels clear, the first day in which the sum of his parts adds up to a person again, more than just the basic needs for food, safety, sleep and warmth. He is aware of his body again, has only just emerged from hibernation. Adam and Eve must have felt this way too, when first they had the urge to cover themselves after sharing that unfortunate fruit, their eyes opened to the world.

_The serpent deceived me, and I ate._

Will doesn’t feel the need to cover himself.

The awareness of his body fills him with something else. There’s a tinge of arousal; absent since the night he talked with Molly on the phone, the night he first saw Hannibal again. A lifetime ago.

His cock stiffens a little, and he closes his eyes. Perhaps he has dreamed something nice and has all but forgotten about it since he woke up. Perhaps it will be okay to indulge for a moment longer before he stands up to take a cold shower.

Hannibal inhales once, then stops, surprised. When they start again, his inhales are longer. He is taking in the smell of Will’s arousal, and he knows. It’s erotic, somehow, being seen by him like this, knowing that Hannibal knows in turn and is too polite to remark upon it. Will would like to have his ability—just to be certain it’s affecting him in the same way. From his position, facing away, he can't be sure. That only makes it better.

The hand around his cock is almost automatic. It feels good, too—the tiny stroke he allows himself, a caress awakening his lust.

Hannibal's next inhale catches.

»Will,« he says softly, breathy. The way he always pronounces his name, like poetry; a melody consisting of only one word.

Will ignores him. Continues. Another stroke, and another, just gentle teasing; a test to see if this is still something he can do, despite everything that’s happened. His dick is fully hard now, and the familiar ache unfurls, delayed and pleasant.

For a long moment, Hannibal does nothing. He takes in the smell, takes in the sound, apparently indecisive. His curiosity overcomes him, as it often does, and he turns on his side, facing the pain.

He is like a wall: his body presses against Will's in a line of impenetrable warmth. It radiates from his middle, from his erection pushing insistently against Will's behind.

Now Will is the one who takes it all in. Even now Hannibal seems unsure. He places the ghost of a kiss on Will’s shoulder and inhales again, nose in his hair. A hand is lain tentatively on the arm that is working his cock, feeling the muscles shift beneath the skin. It's the softest of touches, while the grip Will has on his dick is getting tighter by the second.

Hannibal begins to pet him. Traces a finger up and down his arm, cuddling up even tighter. Perhaps there is the smallest movement of his hips, the search for friction and relief against Will's ass. Will allows it. Keeps his eyes closed and tips his head back, inviting Hannibal to kiss his throat, to moan against him for the gift he’s given. The speed of Will’s hand increases still, moving swiftly over shaft and glans. He's close already.

Hannibal's hand tightens around his arm, bigger and firmer than the ones Will has felt on his skin before. Hannibal pants into his ear, their lust escalating in tandem. His hand moves lower, follows the line of Will’s arm, until it comes to rest on Will’s own hand, performing the strokes in unison with him. Will comes with the first touch of Hannibal’s fingertips on his cock. He makes a sound, something akin to a moan but not quite that, discontinued halfway through it because the pleasure is too much. His muscles tense and he presses against Hannibal on instinct, erasing all empty spaces left between them, and he settles again slowly, melting against Hannibal's hot chest and belly and cock.

An arm is slung around him instantly, holding him uncomfortably close. He allows this too. Hannibal's face is hidden in his scapula, his breathing erratic. There’s wetness on Will’s back, pearls of liquid rolling down his skin and onto Hannibal's again, disappearing in the curls of his pubic hair. Strange and intimate.

»That's enough,« Will tells him and Hannibal lets go, if reluctantly.

Will disentangles himself from the sheets and stands on wobbly legs, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of Hannibal's pre-cum rolling down his ass.

Hannibal looks disheveled—more than he has ever seen him, more than he was even at his sickest. He looks confused too, and hopeful, and somehow very, very sad, with his cock still hard and red and ignored.

»I'm going to take a shower,« Will announces. He waits for a second, and for Hannibal's nod.

»You can join me if you want,« he adds, just to see the sadness vanish from Hannibal's eyes. 

A small smile tugs at his mouth. »I would like that very much.«


	2. Chapter 2

Before they get into the shower, Will takes off his ring.

Miraculously, it stayed on during their plunge into the Atlantic. There had been no time to consider the meaning of it. There is now and it seems he has decided.

He holds it out to Hannibal without a word. It’s warm from Will’s body when Hannibal takes it between his fingers, watches the glint of it as he turns it around in his palm like a coin. It lies heavy there; a hated object finally in his possession to do with as he pleases. He seeks Will’s eyes and maintains contact with them as he brings his hand up to his mouth, takes the ring and swallows it dry.

Will inclines his head. It's a familiar gesture—it could be a mirror of himself. »You can't keep it inside of you forever. It’ll come out eventually.«

»Then I'll eat it again.« _Until I find and end her the way the Dragon could not._

Hannibal has never acknowledged a competitor; too obvious the fact that their connection is unique. But there had been doubt, over the years. Not anymore. Will is his now. He has given in and Hannibal will not allow him to pull away again. They fell together. They survived together. They’ll live together. Leaning forward, he brings their lips together in a first, possessive kiss. He doesn't care for the way Will tastes—bilgy from sleep and teeth unbrushed—only about how he parts beneath him like skin under a knife.

Will stumbles backward, Hannibal forward. They reach the shower, reach the wall, and Will is pressed against it, Hannibal trapping him against the tile. He allows himself to touch what he could formerly only touch in his mind—the contours of Will's face, the structure of bone beneath. The line of his strong, stubbly jaw and the bows of his soft, thick eyebrows. He presses hard against him, wants to mark him with his prints. There'll be time for tenderness later, after Hannibal has claimed him.

Hannibal kisses his way down to the hollow of his throat. Stays there for a moment. Breathes Will in, the scent of sleep and sweat and recent orgasm. A wave of emotion: amazement and rage, ecstasy and terror. What Will can unleash in him, without his least intention.

Places a few kisses on his way down, each one perfervid, the promise of more in the days and weeks and years to come.

Locks the pain his wound is causing him away in his Memory Palace. Let the stitches tear. Let him stay bedridden for weeks. This is too important to go about halfheartedly.

Takes Will into his mouth without warning, feels him squirming to get away. Fear of his teeth and overstimulation. It doesn't matter. Hannibal will pull another orgasm from him.

Will is impressive, even flaccid. He doesn't grow much more when becoming hard. Outstanding regardless, like every part of him.

Hannibal sucks, hard and fast. Will is clawing at his head, pulling on his hair. Hannibal looks up to him and meets his gaze, blushed from face to chest. He looks almost in pain, aching from too much pleasure. Magnificent creature.

Hannibal closes his eyes. Tears well up but he doesn't allow them to fall.

The first drop of Will's pre-ejaculate fills his mouth with its flavor, as a single bead of blood would. It makes Hannibal euphoric—proof of Will's lust, caused by Hannibal. Undeniable.

Hannibal lets him fall from his lips. Kisses down the shaft. Suckles on his balls. Takes one into his mouth. Will squirms again. Laughs, short and eruptive, as though Hannibal had tickled him. It's music. The tears do fall.

He'd love to make Will turn around. Spread him apart, lick into him for hours and hours until he begged for release. He’s not ready for it yet. Later. Oh, how that fills him with joy. _Later._

Hannibal’s own hardness, neglected since Will started touching himself, is becoming more and more apparent. He wants to soothe the ache, but doesn't in case Will is planning on doing it himself.

Will is louder this time, his sweet moans desperate. He moves wildly, trying to escape Hannibal’s warmth. 

»I can't-«

He is sore, but Hannibal is unrelenting. Looking up, he knows his eyes convey the message. _You will._

It takes another ten minutes, maybe longer. Hannibal enjoys himself too much to be sure. Will's slow descent into madness is beautiful. The way he begins by burying his fingers deeper into Hannibal’s scalp, thrusting into his mouth, using him. Desperate to reach his climax, to end this. Faltering just moments later, the grip on Hannibal’s hair loosening, making himself subject to his mercy. Their usual game, one of them leading, always. Hannibal can't wait for them both to become undone at the same time, to ride out their heights together.

Will groans his name and comes. It is but a trickle, his body unable to give more so soon, but Hannibal swallows it greedily, relishing the bitter taste. It’s spilled for _him_. Wasting even a drop of it won't do. He thinks of Will's former wife while he consumes him—of what he has already consumed of her— and feels gratification.

Will sags and Hannibal is there to catch him. Unfortunate. He would have liked to hold him in his mouth a while longer, make him beg to stop. 

Will is hot against him, wet from sweat and smelling divine. He doesn't kiss him this time, assumes that Will is not the type of man who’d appreciate the taste of his own come. Instead he turns on the shower, lets hot water drench them both. Will is lying in his arms, boneless, while Hannibal washes him, smooths calming hands over the expanse of his back, wipes away remaining traces of himself. He shuts his eyes and learns his body by touch, his heart fluttering as it did when Will first reached for him on the clifftop’s edge.

Will draws back eventually, energy returning to his body. He doesn't meet Hannibal’s eyes, but travels his body with his hands instead. Fingers explore his protruding clavicles, the hair on his chest, the firmness of the muscles in his arms and stomach. They run lower, over his pubic hair. Hannibal watches Will's face intently, watches the way he nibbles on the inside of his lips.

Hannibal says nothing. If he wants to, he will do it. If he doesn't, well. There is time.

But Will wants, or feels he must, for long fingers curl around him and stroke, pressure and speed perfect right away. Had he allowed his thoughts to wander in this direction in the past, Hannibal would have imagined such. He bucks into Will’s hand, helpless against his own desire, helpless against the sounds escaping his mouth. Will watches Hannibal's cock glide through his fist for a while before he raises his eyes, locking them with Hannibal's.

He is entranced by those eyes. He drew Will so often in the hospital, all his lovely features, but his eyes Hannibal feels especially connected to, perhaps because they refuse connection so often.

Hannibal finds he can't abide the scrutiny of them now, mooring deep in his soul, eager to pick apart everything he is thinking and feeling.

His eyes grow half-lidded, but he's giving in to Will as Will has done for him. Sees and is seen. Invites and is invited.

»Come for me,« Will says— _demands_ —and Hannibal does. Thrusts forward once more and lets go.

He's masturbated perhaps once a month in the hospital. Physical exercise like any other, no thought attached to it. Coming from Will's touch is different, something subconsciously needed, an itch that is finally scratched. He feels Will’s brilliant mind reaching out to him, the mind which knows of good and evil joining him in his moment of delight. Wants to continue tumbling forever. With Will. His Will.

It's the water that he's first aware of when he comes down from his high. The water and Will's hands, caressing him, washing the semen from his chest and belly.

Wills greets him with a peck on the mouth. Shorter, yet somehow sweeter than the kiss they shared earlier. Love, Hannibal thinks. That’s what it feels like.

»You're bleeding,« Will says, more irritated than worried, hand grasping Hannibal’s hip lightly.

Hannibal smiles at him and turns off the shower. There is indeed blood trickling down the drain, blood and semen, tokens of life. And how alive he feels, how he thrives at the prospect of what is yet to come. 

»Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness, is there, Will?«

**Author's Note:**

> [fragile-teacup](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup/) is the best beta. Just saying. XOXO
> 
> Come visit me on my[ tumblr ](http://www.pka42.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Like what I'm doing? Consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A842K38/)!
> 
> If you have anything to say—be it flailing, constructive criticism or other things—please feel free to leave a comment! I always love to get feedback.


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